Pure Starlight and Woodland Sprites
by Miss Luna Darling
Summary: Inspired by the Hobbit book and films. Faervel is a lost soul wandering middle earth. In an unexpected turn of events, while hunting an orc pack for profit she narrowly misses beheading the King of the Mirkwood realm. What transpires there on after is a perilous mission to clear her name and recover the King's family heirlooms. Gems of pure starlight from the Lonely Mountain.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey this is my first Fanfiction so please take mercy on my soul (I'm new to this). I'm going to apologise in advance for any grammar and spelling issues, I do check my work but sometimes it slips past me. I will also apologise for any layout issues, I can just about get my head around this websites interface. So without further a-do, thank you and I hope you like it.

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The thrum of her heartbeat echoed through her chest as she clung to the high bows of the great oak beneath her. Some way down on the crisp bracken and air-dried leaves, a lone orc crashed about gracelessly. It muttered to itself in guttural tones as if the words it spoke had nowhere to rest silently within its small mind. The foul creature threatened and cursed her. It was unaware that she still haunted him from the tall, lush canopy above. She had been chasing the same orc pack for over a month. Gradually, as if savouring the task, she had picked each one off; one by one. The last of the foul pod, the one shuffling beneath her, had drawn her into the ever-darkening sickness that was the Mirkwood realm. Admittedly, she had no taste for the dark gloom of this particular woodland. She had visited sparingly, as when her work drew her under its mangled limbs. The last occurrence to her recollection was at least a year before now, where she had met the frightfully large spiders that nested in dense areas. She shivered at the thought. Silently she slipped to lower branches, her eyes never left its grossly misshapen form. Although, she remained weary to the idea of the materialising capabilities of the elven natives. She had no patience for the woodland elves as much as she had none for any other creature.

Growing restless she crept further across the thinning veins as the creature bumbled, unwittingly, very close to a well-trodden path. Almost immediately the touch of its boot on the trampled earth awakened the sound of thumping hooves. Rushed to act with the taste of coin quickly fading from her reach, she prepared to end the orcs life and then scarper from the trees. Preoccupied, the beast tittered. With her chance deliciously set before her she fell from the gnarled arms that had held her. Then with one, strong and swift motion she let a well-polished short-sword fly. Its clean destination, the back of its exposed neck. It was then, before she had even began to move to collect proof of her hunt that a flash of long platinum hair swung into her shot. Between her and her kill. Time appeared to still, the world holding its breath as the huntress placed the elf before her. His crown of summer flowers sat proud apron his head. He seemed to have approached the orc in a manner that suggested peace. But with little time to act she heard herself cry out in warning.

"Watch out!" The words passed her lips loud and hastily, although no emotion flowed through them. Whether it had alerted the elf or not, she could not have been certain, but he dodged the weapon and watched soundlessly as it decapitated its mark. With little assurance of what was to occur next she used her nimble speed to round the looming figure and tear a scrap of stinking fabric from the orc. She was about to leap up and away, to hasten into the surrounding thicket but she had underestimated the swiftness of the Mirkwood guard. A well sharpened arrow-head nestled against the nape of her bent neck. The cool metal nipped at the sensitive flesh beneath. She gritted her teeth as a flash of a sour expression passed her features. She stuffed the memento of leather into a pouch at her waist and then relinquished her arms to the view of all and stood cautiously. The arrow disappeared in its intimacy, but it would have taken a fool to expect that it was not still aimed at her. The silence tore on for an agonising length of time, roughed by the unsettling ambiance of the ill wood and the strong trembling of the decapitated corpse. It was only after the body had settled into its still death that a cold voice spoke out.

"Yet another wander finds themselves in my midst. Tell me assassin, who sent you here?" For lack of collective thought, and the humour of the predicament nothing but a bubble of sarcastic laughter entered in her defence. A strong, bejewelled grip placed itself upon her neck as the looming owner of the voice weighed down on her. His icy gaze bore into hers. "Speak" He commanded, his choke-hold only lightened enough to allow coherent speech.

"I was killing the Orc and you found your way into my path, so if you will excuse me" His grip regained as he spoke.

"You dare challenge me you sorry little creature?" His words slipped venomously as if to unnerve her soul. Unfazed she eyed the King of Mirkwood, unapologetically her pale green eyes, as frozen and luminous as his own looked back. An unspoken battle for dominance, of which transcended the physical, played out between them both as she denied his power over her. She refused to enter into discussion as she feared that, under the impression that she had nearly beheaded the King, it would be for nought. In realisation that out on the road he would not be privy to any answer he turned to his guard, in a semi-bored and languid nature. "Incarcerate her" were his final words on the matter, yet still she had her own opinion of what was to happen next. As he relinquished his hold on her throat, pale white for the handling, two of his armoured following stepped up. Patiently she waited for his return to his enormous stag and factored it with the arms reaching to grab her. She let her nerves out in an inaudible sigh and inhaled her re-rising adrenaline. With some pain she accepted that with her next move she submitted herself to the wrath of the woodland enforcement.

In one fell swoop she escaped the closing grips about her and sprinted into the thicket. She was glad she was closer to the tree line bordering the fields as she watched the archers fly overhead. She sprinted effortlessly, content that at least she had finished her task. With little ability to waste time on a plan, she spent the trail to the exit evading fallen logs and the sharp fingers of trees and bushes that would otherwise grab at her cloak. It never ceased to be unsettling, the way a full chase was unfolding, yet no sound disturbed the if-natural stillness of the woods.

Through the thick vegetation the girl could just about make out the waning beams of sunlight, ebbing from the outside world. The restless chattering of her horse consoled her greatly. She continued to dance through, over and under in her attempt to flee. The idea of her horse's well-worn and sun-heated saddle had never seemed so inviting.

An arctic bolt of fear froze her blood and dragged her from her mild pining when an arrow splintered by her side. It was most certainly a warning. One of which she was helpless to ignore.

Instead she quickened her footfalls as she began to breach the hairline of Mirkwood. A large ditch proved the last defence against her escape, but she leapt bravely at the cusp of the earthy fall. And she would have made the other side with relative ease; yet she stumbled. Tumbled roughly over tough roots and sharp rock she then landed in the stagnant mud of the trough. A soft groan escaped her at first, as the air pushed out of her lungs. Quickly enough it morphed into a muffled cry as she noticed the arrow that was buried deep within her upper thigh. The cause to her clipped flight. In sheer detestation she growled and crawled defiantly up the other side of the rise. She knew that the mere seconds had drawn significantly at the gap between herself and her assailants. Her stallion came to her need and aided her as it could to place her into its saddle. Her heartbeat battered in her ears and chest and the pain in her thigh seemed to pulse in its rhythm. For fear of unnecessary further damage the arrow remained anchored in her flesh as she fled. The hot red of her lifeblood cascaded her leather attire and had made her hands slippery upon her reins.

The fierce patter of arrows rained down about her.

She leant into her beast's neck to hide her face and stabilise her weakened form. She bit down on her gloved knuckles to suppress sounds of pain.

On a normal day, she surmised, the Mirkwood guard would have stopped at the border of their lands. The threat would have been considered past. But due to the nature of her transgression, whether accidental or not, she predicted that she had until nightfall until a loyal pursuit began.

Once over the first great plain of land her steed slowed in its relentless pace. The girl relaxed as well as she could and steered in the only direction sensible enough to strive for; north, up along the skirt of the river running to Esgaroth. She remained a cloaked wander there who had papers to pass and go as she pleased. She kept her face shrouded and her words quiet and they would in turn leave her be. Her only fear was that the Elves would also know she had no other option. As the river running flowed parallel to the borders of Mirkwood and the two grew closer the nearer to Esgaroth she was concerned that they could cut out in front of her at any given time. In her unfortunate encounter with the Elven King she had been truly blessed that her face had remained as concealed as it had. It gave her an edge against her own bounty.

She could ill afford, however, to continue to sport the Elven shaft in her thigh. Without ceremony she sucked in a deep breath and felt, through gingerly displacing the arrow, that the head was not barbed. Then with a gruff resolve that closely resembled a dwarf she yanked the bolt from her wound. She hissed and immediately cast the accursed object from her into the river and bound the wound in tight strips of her own rags. She would stitch it personally once she had earned time to rest. She rode swiftly and it was only as the last traces of sunlight yielded to the oncoming night that she reached the lake town. Embraced by the dark she found her slightness grow in its strength. She boarded an inbound vessel, both she and her horse. The summer air did nothing but accentuate the rank odours of the small human settlement. The water veins which drew through the wooden streets doubled as their sewage system. The girl tucked her nose into the scarf about her mouth and made for the small pawn shop that slept within the market centre. She made certain to make her presence known, to wrap herself in the gossip of the local fish-wives before she entered the familiar residence. Once inside she dropped her pouch of orc-rags onto the countertop alongside a drawn bounty contract. She did not need to say a word and the receiver of her attention did not offer into conversation either as she checked the contents. Happy with the authenticity of the strips of cloth the woman took the bounty contract and the ribbons of leather and in their stead placed a heavy bag of coins. The girl wasted no time attaching her spoils to her person before she limped out back into the stuffy night air.

To avoid wasting anymore time her next action was to board an outgoing vessel in the quietest part of the north side of the city. Once back on solid ground she meant to ride onwards to the ruins of the city of Dale and loose herself in its echo of desolation. As the small merchant boat glided out into the artery of the lake, the girls keen sense told her somewhere in the now departed town elven soldiers had arrived. She was sure that she had more than enough time before they worked out that she had moved on and indeed was not licking her wounds somewhere within the Human's company. Back on the edge of the river and back on her horse she inhaled ravenously the fresh air. Fear still pressed upon her heart however, and she galloped on towards the grey rubble in the distance. Her spiritual awareness pricked at her conscious as the old stone whispered its story. She had never been one to feel for the past, instead she revelled in its forsaken beauty as the wind caressed tendrils of her hair and rushes of tall grass alike. Armoured with her recovered confidence she rode across the crumbling sun-bleached bridge and under the looming arches of the city walls.

It was neither eerie nor inviting as night calls sung sweetly in the air. Reassurance, she thought, against the dark corners of buildings that even her fair sight could not penetrate. Stealing away she let her mount roam inside a large hall that had been reclaimed by nature, so that it could graze. Then she scaled the broken outer walls to a tall bell tower that was bathed in moon and starlight. She felt its ethereal glow charge her very core with its wisdom and impartial strength. Gently she slipped to the floor, covered enough against a wall as that an oncoming Elven rider would not see her, yet enough for her to see them. She then unbound her swelling thigh to examine the angry wound. From her pack she drew a pouch of medicinal herbs she had purposefully brought for an occasion such as this. She also set a soft ball of silken thread and a fine embroidery needle by its side. First she bathed the exposed flesh with the clear liquid from her water-skin while she chewed on the therapeutic herbs. The action it itself and the familiar taste of dried plants soothed her immensely. Next she smoothed the green pulp over the affliction and pressed down upon it with a clean damp handkerchief. This sting assured her that it was indeed working and she went about washing away the odd graze and cut she had sustained in falling into the ditch. Tranquillity washed over her as she took advantage of her borrowed time. She did not linger sourly on what could have been, instead she resolved that until the first sign of the Mirkwood guard upon the stretch to Dale she would relax. Once she was certain the combined benefits of the herbs had sunken into the open wound she removed the cloth and began to delicately stitch the separated edges back together. It was uncomfortable at best but she could already see the inflammation in her calf muscles beginning to deflate. To finish her dabbling in healing she infused the damp cloth once again with cool water with the remaining herby mulch and rebound her wound once more.

She sighed a pleased relief and went about exploring the depths of her saddle pack for other comforting luxuries. She then sipped at her dwindling supply of water and nipped at the corner of some lembas bread. The sweetness mingled with the residual herbs to create an earthy and satisfying aftertaste that washed the bitterness from her mouth. She even felt her eyelids begin to droop until the presence of another passed across her. She had heard not horses or felt the determination of any soldier, yet the presence was unmistakably of the woodland realm. In the moon glow below she watched a train of embroidered silk slip behind a building. Not in haste but as if beckoning her to join it's wearer at a location of their choice. Without cause to ignore such a sign she swept effortlessly back down to ground level and crept silently in response. Her fingers flittered restlessly against the hilt of the knife at her belt and she passed the corner of the bone-white pillar of stone.

Rich green robes filled a small portion of the natural courtyard. A pin-straight waterfall of hair, silver-white in the basking appraisal of the nights light prompted the girl to whom she stood behind. He turned gracefully as if the ground had pivoted around the anchor of his feet and not the other way around. His face was stern yet relaxed as if nothing had elicited a warm expression in many seasons. She would have been lying if she had said, that under her cold exterior, a lurch of attraction had not washed over her. Nervously her eyes danced about the dark nooks surrounding them before they laid to rest on the eyes before her. They were a crystalline grey, more noticeable now out of the gloom of the forest. They seemed to understand her agitation as his pale lips spoke for her thoughts.

"None of my guards have followed me here, they wait patiently elsewhere in the city" His voice was languid yet powerful. It was a soft as the night breeze that fluttered about them yet not diminished at all for the lack of volume. "I would invite you to remove your cowl, so that I may speak with you on more enlightened terms." He gestured out of his elongated sleeves with a jewel-laden hand. Out of good will she removed the head piece from her hair and face and a cascade of longer but kin to the colour of his own spilled out around her. Her pointed ears peaked from between sections of her un-braided hair and her pale green eyes became fully illuminated in the power of their ferocity.

"A king-slaying elf? Although I must say you do not bear much resemblance to the Noldor of old." He stated, a look of curiosity graced his fine features. Unabashed under his ebbing control of the air about them, she spoke freely.

"That is because I am neither a king-slayer, nor of Noldor decent" She corrected in an even tone. At once he slowly drew closer and circled her to fully examine the creature that stood before him.

"I will admit that there are not many High Elves in this world that I do not know of. My question next will be to that of your name." He asked flippantly as if it did not concern him either way. To retain an inflammatory state the girl clarified.

"Faervel" The name floated softly between them. His gaze danced across her own for a moment in an attempt to cajole a second name. "That is my only name, my house is long since dead" She opened barely enough to respond to his quizzical stare. He did not press the matter as he resumed his circling.

"Then tell me, Faervel, what possessed you today in the woods to make an attempt on my life?" His words, although spoken with the up most care, appeared rough at the seams; as if he already had a form of her response in mind. She sighed and brushed a few tendrils of hair from her face as she collected her thoughts. He was most certainly patient as he stood to rest in front of her. His arms were crossed against his chest as he looked down on her.

"I am both a wander and a sell-sword, I find work where I can. For the past month I had been tracking an orc pack responsible for harming farmers and remote settlers on their own land. Human folk, you understand. The last orc drew me into the shallows of Mirkwood and I was rushed to act, lest I lose my claim to the bounty. I know it seems utterly convenient, but I had thrown my sword to decapitate the foul beast. As soon as it had left my hand, you appeared between my blade and my target. I ran because even now, it is a story that seems particularly far-fetched. Especially when considering I did indeed, accidentally may I add, nearly slay a King." She paused a moment to provide the receipt and her pay-purse from her belt. He took it casually and his eyes skimmed over the details there within. "I also realised that either way, I would have been considered an unwelcome intruder."

"You were indeed" He offered bluntly as he passed her effects back to her. "This document cannot however speak for your underlying motives. There are many orcs in my land, how can I be sure that this was not just any orc and not the one you say you were hunting, if you had not killed it already?" He was dubious at best, but she had an inkling of a feeling that he had an ulterior motive to his questioning. Irritation began to settle upon her brow as her distaste for social interaction began to surface.

"What do you want from me?" Her words were sharp and free of emotion. A smirk lifted his features and brightened his eyes. He stooped down to her height to meet her face to face and dead in the eye. She imagined it could have been a stark repeat of the staring contest they had partook in earlier that day, but then he spoke. He seemed also to grow weary of the pointless dressing of the subject. "I am willing to clear you of any wrong doing in my kingdom, a pardon if you will. But you will have to do something for me first."

"And what would that be?" Her growl of impatience was barely supressed and he noted it favourably.

"I need someone to retrieve something for me. Until this time I had no rush to peruse it, but now I fear it has become a race against a company of filthy Dwarves."

"Treasure, I assume" She responded in a clipped manner.

"Heirlooms in fact, that lie beneath the belly of the sleeping dragon referred to as Smaug the Golden." She watched him with a sarcastic look of humour.

"I hope you are not about to trade me my freedom so that I can be roasted by dragon fire." His smirk only increased as he continued to breach the space between them, she could feel his warm breath on her skin but she refused to back down.

The stillness of the stone courtyard became, once again, evidently apparent as they watched each other. If Faevrel was to be completely honest with herself she would have said the whole exchange was very strange. If not some form of awkward perversion of power. With their noses a hairs-breadth form touching she responded.

"What if I refuse?" She hummed, ignoring the erratic spiral of thoughts within her mind. On the outside she was entirely collected, her pulse was perhaps on the slower side, but there was no indication to suggest that she was either threatened or scared. She could tell it vexed the king greatly. On the instant her provocative statement had uttered from her, he had reared up. In the proximity she found herself staring at his embroidered chest. She found herself in a quandary when deciding how to maintain her passive-aggressive body language. If she stepped back she was surrendering to his power, but if she remained she would have to crane her neck back awkwardly and acknowledge that he looked down on her. Instead she attempted a more radical third approach. With a small exhale, crafted to sound like a mocking giggle, she turned her back to him to observe the darkness that had lain behind her. She barely made out an archer creeping in the shadows of a nearby building. To adjust to the situation the king stooped once more, to lower himself to her ear. His soft hair spilled over her shoulder to rest with her own as he spoke confidently.

"It matters not to me, either way you will be coming to the palace. I will eagerly await your change of mind, but until then you will just have to reflect on your attitudes." A handful of guards sprung from the darkness and this time she had no option but to surrender. With them they had brought fourth her horse who was whining in protest. She called to it softly in her elvish tongue to sooth its nerves and with the unnecessary help of a guard she mounted it. The armoured guard then bound her wrists to her saddle and then bound the reins to his own horse. She was paraded through the small band of soldiers who looked more than just a little smug. In that moment she realised that in trying to outwit them she had made herself look entirely gullible. They must have split into two groups, the smaller one would have been riding behind her to force her to leave Esgaroth and attempt refuge in Dale, while the stronger force would lie in wait for her. Perhaps she should have attempted riding down and through Mirkwood at the eastern blight…

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On arrival at the King's Palace she finally realised that there would be no escaping. She was escorted roughly through the great halls deeper and deeper until she was standing in a courtyard of prison cells. There she was met once again by her captor, who had since unburdened himself of his crown and outer robes.

"Leave us" He commanded sternly and the room emptied of any life but their own. From there he pulled a chair up into the centre of the floor and lounged across it in silence. Faervel watched blankly, so calm in her resolve that she noticed the grand figure before her twitching irritability. "I must confess, I thought the sight of these cells may have convinced you of a more favourable answer." He watched with dull curiosity at the golden wine that rippled in the glass in his hand. She took to pacing like a cornered feline in his line of sight, her almost vicious pale eyes bore over him. "I'm a sell-sword, not a weak recipient of threats" she uttered as the sensation of illness loomed against her inner light. His smirk attempted to strip her of her confidence.

"Come now, I have no reason to treat a high elleth poorly, if she has true reason to be here. I promise that if you allow this exchange of favours to proceed that you will be treated with the upmost respect. You have my word." He may have stated it, but she would have sooner believed a serpent more trustworthy than his word.

"I do not need respect, and beside the point, if I were to partake in this sick excuse of a pardon, what makes you think I would be able to enter a Dwarven city that even a dwarf does not know how to enter?" The King felt that he was beginning to crack her resistance.

"You will wait for a dwarf to open it of course. It may be months or years, but eventually Thorin Oakensheild's company will take my offer of freedom. Then once the stronghold is open all you will have to do is retrieve the jewels. Then, fully pardoned you may leave my lands and never return." Unconsciously she had drifted closer to his form in her agitated wandering. Now she looked down on his coy features as he pressed her with a look of innocence.

"Say then, this company takes years to leave these dungeons, what am I supposed to do until then?" She ground her teeth. His face brightened as he had won the argument.

"Well that entirely depends on what you choose. You may live under my watch in my halls until such a time arrives. You will be free to do as you please, all except leave that is. Or you may sit in one of these cells in isolation." He held his newly acquired power over her with a strange sense of mirth. He watched as she mentally swayed between her stubbornness and reason. Then she turned to him with a polite expression as nearly deceptive as his own.

"I would be happy to assist you in your mission, my King" She refused to bow but he raised himself to his full height and took her gloved hand in a courtly fashion.

"It is a pleasure to receive you in my halls, Faervel Wander-lost" He then used her hand in his firm grip to lead her back to the upper levels of his palace, away from the depressive cloud of emotion in the dungeons. "It will be seen to that you are well looked after, my lady" The looks they exchanged had a kind of charm that suggested to the outside world that they had shared in a private joke. "I will have the servants appoint you a hand-maid in the morning. Please do not attempt an escape between now and then, it will only end in poor tastes for you." He finished as he swept her further into the heart of the colossal structure. The area seemed particularly well-furnished and he stopped outside two magnificently large doors. "This will be your chamber, breakfast will be served to you in your room at a more sociable hour." He allowed her to refuge behind the door before he parted ways. "It would be a shame if one of my guards shot you in an escape attempt" he uttered as he left down the way he came.

"It would be a shame if you tripped on your dress, you woodland sprite" She sung in return as she pulled the door shut. She looked around disdainfully at the regal abode she had been assigned and sighed deeply. With little other option she pulled off her filthy coat and boots and limped to the large bed by the balcony windows. She slipped through the canopy of soft translucent fabric and bunkered down into the plush covers. Her thigh still ebbed its cooling tantrum but a new sensation settled over her. Tucked into a protective ball she felt her body tremble. It was only in the peace of the chamber that the true gravity of the days events came crashing down on her.


	2. Chapter 2

She felt like she had only been lying there for mere moments when suddenly the room burst into life. She had not slept at all, but she had no idea what time had passed as she had hid under the thick duvet for the entirety of it. It was a rustling that had caused her to peep into the room around her to see what was going on.  
On the far end of the room two women bustled about, they were giggling and gossiping in hushed tones. Unfortunately, not quiet enough for the huntress' taste. She emerged from the bed silently and, without catching their attention, she went to look for her discarded boots and coat.  
The green-tinted morning light strained through the chamber windows and stained everything in deep shadows. She found her clothing placed neatly at the dressing table in the room. Her scuffed fingers brushed across the fabric of her coat and she lifted it from the stall. At that moment it seemed that the two maids had become aware of her presence as one pulled the article of clothing from her hand while the other escorted her towards a large adjoining bathroom.

"Please, my Lady you should bathe and wear a new set of clothes" One encouraged as she pushed her forward. Sensing she had little opinion she had to shoo them away so that she could have the privacy to wash. Before she did she turned to the two expectant faces and asked,

"When I arrived yesterday I had a couple of saddle packs with my personal effects in them. You would not happen to know where they are now, would you?" Her voice was masked in a sweet and polite tone. As if remembering, one disappeared back into the bedroom and brought forth the three bags in mention.

"The stable boy brought them here this morning. Do you require them now?" The maid's voice was soft and calm. Faervel assumed she would have a store of patience that could last for an eternity. Carefully she took her bags from the woman's grasp and began to close the bathroom door.

"I brought my own clothes, you see. I feel much more comfortable in them." To block a counter argument she closed the door entirely.  
In the safety of the wash room she collapsed to the floor and began rifling through her stores to see if everything was still there. It was no shock to her that they had removed all of her weapons and her food reserves. Inside the last bag however, her nicer clothes had remained untouched. She pulled them carefully from the scented cloth she had wrapped them in. They were probably the only items of clothing that she owned that did not smell of horse. The rich scent of lavender reached her nose as she unpacked the garments and she settled them aside, now prepared for her after her bath.  
She undressed quickly in her foreign surroundings and slipped into the foamy shield of hot water to cover herself. The herb-infused bath stung at her wounds but the cleanliness that followed made the rest of her skin tingle. After all, it had been a very long time since she had been able to bathe in anything other than a cold stream. Or on a rare occasion, she was able to wash with a warm bowl of water and a cloth. In comparison it was a welcome treat.  
The grime dissolved steadily to reveal a canvas of flawless, elven-pale skin. Even when accounting for her blatant distaste for her kin; to all those who looked upon her face there was no denying that she was one of the fairest of her kind. She had been told many times, but looks were of no importance to her.

Her attention turned away from her cleansing ritual to the door. The chattering of the maids had stopped abruptly and Faervel listened intently. In the place of their musical laughter a deep commanding voice moved through the air. The words were too muffled to hear from where she sat, but the tone was all too easy to place. One of the maids slipped through a gap in the door with a peaky expression upon her face. Faervel watched silently.

"His majesty requests that you join him for his morning walk and dine with him" The woman shuffled nervously as she performed under her King's scrutiny. The huntress was not sure what purpose the King had illustrated her with among his court, but she knew it would be a character with satisfactory manners and respect. With a small sigh she emerged from the steaming water, and she watched soundlessly as the murky rivulets tumbled from her, back into the pool.

"Of course" She stepped from the bath and gathered the closest soft towel about her. She remained silent for another moment as she focused on brushing the beads of water from her skin. She turned to place her gaze on the maid who now seemed to be hovering on stand-by. She assumed she had made no move to return to her master because he had not expected a decline of his invitation. Instead the maid was waiting to help her dress. A feat of which she was perfectly able to do herself. "What could ever make your face so pale?" She queried gently as she began to collect her garments for dressing.

"His Majesty is in a foul mood" The maid whispered, it was almost so quiet that the huntress did not catch it. She acknowledged her worry with a curt nod and went about dressing herself.  
The maid fluttered restlessly as she watched the elleth clothe herself. The attire had travelled with her over the centuries. Once they had been created by instruction of her parents, who had fully embraced their daughter's warrior-inspired image. They were relics now, of days and people past and the scent of the home grown lavender clouded her heart with the bruise of grief for a moment. She remembered the days when, as a child, she would fuss over the ways her skirts would tangle her legs when she wanted to climb. So as a blossoming woman they crafted her an outfit that both celebrated her femininity and her adventurous spirit. The tunic resembled closely the pattern that the king usually sported, except that hers fastened tightly at the waist and remained opened just above her bust to reveal her softly sculpted décolletage. Her neck was dressed with a single thin ribbon holding a tear-drop of moonstone. Her breeches were of the same lilac fabric as her tunic and were embroidered with the same pale-green motif of ivy leaves. As she moved to pull on her boots her train moved with her as a waterfall of silk at her heels.  
Her mind had wandered elsewhere in the process and it only returned when she felt hands attempting to plat her hair. She stilled them instinctively and instead combed through her hair and braided a few strands herself. She could tell that the maid was not sure what to think of her image but she gave her a small respectful bow.

"I thank you for your assistance" She offered her and slipped out of the bathroom door.  
The King himself was waiting at the end of the room, while the other of the two maids looked busy tidying the room. He looked her up and down curiously, on his best behaviour in front of his loyal subjects. But she could see some form of dark humour reflecting in his eyes. "My Lord" She acknowledged him as she refrained from cringing.

"My Lady" He offered her his hand, and as she drew close enough to take it, she felt the foul mood she had been warned about. She said nothing as they walked in a courtly fashion from the room.  
The breeze ran through the halls giving her a desire to taste the full fresh air outside. The palace grounds were free of the sickness of the other reaches of the Mirkwood. "Those clothes do not look like those of a wayward traveller" He uttered confidently. A small chuckle ghosted from her lips.

"They are not indeed, for I was not always a 'wayward' traveller" She felt his thumb brush the hanging fabric of her sleeve as if he were trying to assess her credibility through the quality of the fabric: although he already knew that she was born of the High Elves.  
"So I heard you're in a foul mood today" She slipped into a casual conversation as she set aside her effort to be formal.  
His gaze shifted to hers quickly, as if to warn her that she was pushing her luck with his patients. She continued to ignore his power over her but she had to admit that the challenge was slowly feeling less like a death sentence. They walked through the palace and she admired the colossal structure, and the way it made her feel like a small creature inside the up-rooted bowls of a great oak tree. She would never prompt anyone who resided within the halls but she vaguely remembered visiting when she was a very small child.  
The King led them out into the fresh morning air and the gardens were illuminated with the sun beams bouncing off of the dewy leaves. Her anxiety fluctuated as she attempted to guess at what the Kings temper was about. She had a sneaking suspicion that it would affect her somehow.

"The opportunity to clear your name is to arrive sooner than you thought." He began in his professional tone, his strides were long but unhurried, unlike the huntress', who's had to speed up to remain alongside him. She sighed mentally with relief when she realised that some sort of power must have been looking out for her after all. She did not speak up as she believed he was about to continue anyway.  
"The Dwarves, the company I told you of only yesterday, have escaped." The contempt his words held made her shudder. "You will remain here for a few more days, it will take them far longer to reach the mountain than you. Especially as one of their company is injured." He trailed off as they passed a particularly lovely bushel of roses. He stooped to catch the white petals between his fingers.

Faervel felt a soft smile on her lips as she analysed the King's potential ability to be kind, an opinion of which she was sure he would never agree with. "Of course, and will I be allowed provisions and my weapons when I set out on my little venture?" She teased as his attention turned back to her. He returned to her and took her hand once again.

"Indeed you will, but not your most valuable pieces, we want you to bring the spoils back don't we?" His voice was humorous for a moment until he settled into a more mischievous mood. "For someone so blatantly against civilisation, your manners are remarkable." He observed as he led her into the more wooded section of the garden.  
"It's obvious you do not like me at all, and that does not stem from your little accident the other day. You have a political distaste for me also." He inferred and they stepped into a small clearing. A beautiful dome made of oaken antlers sat in the middle, underneath a breakfast table was set and they joined it without ceremony.  
The huntress thought to herself in a moment of patient silence, she had to play her game smart if she were to outwit the warrior king. She selected her words as carefully as he did his meal from the platter before him.

"It was the politics of this realm that put me on the path I am on now. Years of courts and manners are not so easily forgotten, but out in the wilds in the boots of a wanderer it is so surprisingly easy to forget the oppression of royalty. I have no qualms about telling you that I do indeed consider myself King-less. Of course, I recognise one of nobility when I see them, in any race be it even Dwarf. But I will never agree with the idea that so much power can be seated inside one person, and decisions made on their opinions." She sighed and sipped at a small goblet of water.  
He watched her curiously for a moment, although his expression still seemed more relatable to that of boredom. "Enough of my opinions though. I feel as if you have some sort of plan to how I am going to spend these days before I ride out towards Erebor." Her assumption seemed to be correct because he leaned back into the ridged back of his chair with a noticeably false expression of kindness.

"I would have you sharpen your weapons, train well and attend to me as a guest, perhaps another few days in court will remind you of the meaning of feminine grace." She scoffed at the term for she had never felt the need to divide principles between the two sexes.  
Out of a time long ago she had been referred to by her people as 'The Prince of Princesses' for she had been a knightly spirit to wear a fine face. Her reminiscing would only bring her misfortune here however, so she steered her thoughts back to the King before her.

"Whoever said that I wanted to appear feminine?" She challenged light-heartedly. He matched her jovial expression and reached his hand across the table to hold hers once again. She felt the connection was a way for him to sense more deeply her responses. As he clasped her hand lightly she felt the weight of the Queen's jewel on her skin, the sensation of the accidental touch felt like a cool sting that spread through her veins and morphed into a strong feeling of comfort and good will.  
It was as if the late queen had extended some grace to the huntress' plight. Her short gasp of surprise went unnoticed.

The rest of the meal was spent in utter silence, on recollection Farevel realised that she could not even place a single thought she had had during the time. It felt as if the silence had extended to her mind as well. Although her curiosity had peaked at the lingering energy of the queen.  
After the meal had concluded they took up once more their polite façade of King and subject as they returned within the structure of the palace and into the gentle hive of activity. Faervel found herself at the feet of the King's throne without purpose and under high scrutiny of Thranduil's court.  
The whispering was far from discrete, and she felt her tribally-pierced ears twitch in irritation. She had no care for their words but the hum of voices grated on her need for quiet. The King watched her idle state with humour as he enjoyed watching her internal struggle between fidgeting and remaining a high level of composure. He had not realised that the only weapon he required against her was the destruction of her solitude.

Her fae felt as if it were trying to claw its way out of the prison of her skin and she reckoned that she would turn and leave sooner than wait for someone to directly speak to her. But then movement occurred.  
A blacksmith came striding confidently through the hall with the almost entire collection of her weapons rolled in a leather apron in his arms. He bowed deeply to his king and rolled the fabric open on the floor to reveal her arms. A wave of anger and fear rolled nauseously through her as she first assessed her missing items. The items she could not escape without. Her Father's sword and her Mother's finest set of daggers.  
She attempted to swallow her emotion, but to Thranduil the play of expressions that had initially run unchecked gave it all away. He had found her pressure point. From his side he pulled her Father's beautifully crafted sword. The snowdrops carved into the hilt reflected the red light of the room and reminded her of the blood that had concealed the silver when it had been bestowed upon her.  
Thranduil examined the sword with the same awe he would his own, the reflected light ricocheted endlessly between the sword and his dead grey eyes. The bruise of grief returned as she watched him twirl and play with it the way her Father had when he taught her to fight as a child.  
"Such a magnificent sword" He stated clearly for all to hear "If I am not mistaken it was made by the same hands as my own." His own he never was seen without became raised alongside hers. "How did you come by it" He watched the emotions play behind her eyes. "Your husband's perhaps?" He mistook the heartbreak for something far more worthy of song. She felt compelled to agree but as she opened her mouth to do so the truth spilled out.

"My father's" She corrected in an even tone, there was no emotion in her voice as she retained a composure of the finest etiquette that she could manage. An emotion that she could not place flitted momentarily in his eyes and then disappeared once again.  
She had hoped that with the tragic passing of his own father that he would grant her some clemency when regarding hers. However her hope was in vain, as his sight hardened and both swords were attached to his side.

"I will play safe-keeper to your heirlooms while you are away fetching mine. We would not want something to happen to them on your journey now, would we?" She gritted her teeth and forced herself to relax, before she looked up at him again from her weapons on the ground. Her pale green eyes looked up with wisdom far beyond the years her body portrayed.

"But of course" She bowed ever so slightly "I assume my other weapons all may travel with me?" She examined the stash, but the confidence of them had tarnished greatly with the loss of her forbears' accoutrements.  
Thranduil nodded in agreement and then waved away every person gathered, including the guards. As the room emptied Faervel took the opportunity to let her eyes wander the expanse of the woodland palace. The hues of mid-noon pushed through in shafts of light, the majority centred about the King, sat proud on his throne. It seemed that no matter what she focused on it always lead right back to the King, as if he were the heart of the woods or perhaps its greatest treasure. Even when she followed the twine of ivy twisting through the stone she ended up following the pattern of his tunic to the thorns about his cheekbones.  
Without disturbing the silence she re-armed herself under his scrutiny. He watched each blade enter the folds of her robes, into her boots and around her belt. She stopped to examine her last blade and held it up to the light, from behind it she addressed the King atop the staircase.

"It doesn't seem right to allow a convicted assassin alone, in an empty room with a stash of weapons and a less-than-kind king." She pondered teasingly as the small blade danced in her hand. He leaned forward with his smug expression, he stood from his throne and languidly began to descend the staircase.  
She watched him as a cat would a mouse, although she was convinced that he thought the reverse of their positions.

"Then by all means try your luck, perhaps you may fell me and somehow escape my kingdom, it does nothing but set your convictions in stone." He unsheathed her Father's sword and she felt a fierce heat spread through her limbs. A rage as hot as the fiery chasm of Mordor swelled within her to be threatened with the weapon that had done nothing but protected its owner's dear.  
She began to pace the floor, certain that he was lusting for a fight much more than she. Her adrenaline began to spike as the full maliciousness of a charred soul bore down upon her. His fae told her that _she would bend to his will,_ she refused adamantly and as he had done, she had slipped from the restraint she had to bear to the world. Every emotion she had to swallow became focused into her anger, something that she could only relive through the wielding of her blades.  
She would most certainly not dishonour her father's memory by being felled by his own blade.

Their blades clashed in an instant so hard that the elvish steel sparked at the contact. Even with the raw and primal emotions that ran between them, at the instant their blades connected the icy jewel on his hand gleamed to catch both of their attentions. It worked as if they both perceived the glare of the queen's spirit.  
Thranduil's face dissolved to one of haunting blankness as he stared at the ring on his hand.  
Then, unanimously, an inability to kill curved the nature of their fight.  
She attempted to grab the weapon from him but a swift and fluid action put distance between them. The sharp metal of her sword bit against the flesh of her palm as it swiped out of reach. They circled the floor with equal expressions of distaste, but otherwise substantially less heated. She still wanted to pounce on him and the intermittent pattern of his grip on her sword indicated he felt the same.  
Her dagger had become slippery in her bloodied hand and she ghosted closer. Her feet tested the cold stone with each step. He remained tall and proud as an oak and watched her now with the same slightly-unnerved expression that he had beheld his ring. The look was enchanting to the elleth and as he recovered she wrapped her hand in a cloth to avoid staining her robes.  
He was half lost in his thoughts when he threw her father's sword towards her and unsheathed his own.

"Show me your strength to wield this weapon." He commanded as he swung his own elegantly in hand. They resumed circling one another for just a moment longer before they closed the gap and crossed swords again. The King was swift and very light on his feet but the strength of his attacks were more than frightening. She dodged the blows as quickly as she could, sometimes the blade only missed by a hairs-breadth. At first her own blows contacted with nothing but beams of sunlight but she soon adjusted to his speed. To look in on the fight it would have been easy to mistake it for a dance.  
Throughout the action their bodies sustained light nicks and slices to their faces, hands and robes. Faervel rapidly began to tire against the relentless battle-worn king.  
His expression had morphed to one of condescending entertainment, for although she demonstrated a bud of exceptional talent, she was still very much unseasoned.

Almost sluggishly she avoided one of a string of more predictable attacks. Her hands felt numb encircled by the decorative silver flowers of her hilt. Although they had braced her against some impact, her sliced palm and scratched knuckles warned her of her impending defeat. Her whole body trembled in exhaustion, to her credit it had taken over half an hour to drive her into the ground.

Finally, and almost mercifully Thranduil pushed away her block. The next thing she knew she was sitting on the floor with the point of his sword ghosting under her chin. The initial anger of the fight had fully dissipated.

"You fight well enough" He stated as he stepped forward to offer her his hand. She took it calmly and he helped her to her feet.  
Before she could protest, he plucked her sword from her cramped fingers. "I hope your desire to challenge me has diminished." She shrugged in a non-committed fashion and he clasped a firm grip on her shoulder. "Come, sit with me and discuss your plan of action."  
Too out of breath to argue she followed him to the bottom of the stairs ascending his throne. Once he had settled he realised his instructions had not been clear enough. "Come" he repeated himself and motioned to the last stair by his seat. She climbed the steps anxiously and settled herself down by his boots. At the proximity she could smell his headily perfumed robes and with her keen hearing she heard his untroubled breath.  
She tapped the stone floor to fill the silence until she realised that she was supposed to speak.

"I suppose I will attempt to retrieve the Jewels of Lasgalen without spilling dwarfish blood. If I can get in and out unseen there is far less risk of an outright argument. My concern is Smaug. Hopefully the Dwarves will kill the beast or at least distract him long enough that I can slip in and take them. The halls are vast so I will have to move quickly to find them, lest I be burnt to a crisp or slain by a company of dwarves." She paused for a moment as he digested her words. She had noticed that the entire environment around them had become void of the far-off chatter of Elves about their business. Instead, only a light breeze swept dry leaves across the floor.  
She inhaled the fresh air as it combed through her hair, and the touch comforted her greatly.  
"I'll ride back as soon as the jewels have been collected" She added bluntly. Once the words had left her lips the all too familiar sense of unease embraced her. She had a feeling that her precarious situation rested on the edge of a knife. She also found that her words fell like empty husks to her ears, as deep, on some subconscious level she knew that she would not leave Mirkwood both free and alive again.

"Very good" He commented in a patronising tone. It was clear that she had not beguiled him with her straight-forward tactics.  
She did not care however, as she suddenly felt as if she needed to flee into the palace gardens. She needed to feel her hands dug into soil, she needed to breathe the unfiltered afternoon air.

"If that is all, I would like to explore the gardens until dinner" Her words almost choked from her as she slipped down the stairs.  
She could sense his overbearing smugness but he did not move or speak to stop her. After she had disappeared from his direct line of sight she practically ran through the halls out into the royal gardens.  
As she passed, the guards watches her cautiously. In her hurry she had nearly missed the way their knuckles turned white on their uniform bows. The waning rays of light, now being blocked by the dense woodland indicated that the evening was drawing in.  
She kept running deeper and deeper into the beds of flowers and trees until she reached a small natural waterfall. The pool was bordered with a short stone wall of which she sat on. The trees above her whispered in agreement with the song of the birds. She faced the falling water and kept her back to the gardens behind her.  
Her emotions had flared, inconsolable once again.  
In an attempt to reconnect to something she could not visibly see connecting to the King, she dipped her fingers into the water. She stared unblinkingly as her hands became submerged in the crystalline liquid. In her rippling reflection she could see all the signs of someone being challenged beyond their threshold. It was not difficult to admit to herself that she may not survive long enough to begin her quest.  
She had to find a way to escape.  
She knew it was risky and she was more likely to die in her attempt to do so. It was impossible to ignore how easily disposable she was to King Thranduil. Her heart fluttered in fear for her life in the absence of adrenaline. The guards were weary of her and doubly observant since Thorin Oakensheild's entire company had escaped their dungeons. She would have to attempt to steal her weapons from the king and find a way to disappear.

Her icy-green haunted eyes stared back at her as the blood washed from her tired hands.  
A choked sob bubbled from her as she imagined the various ways of which her little strain of thought could end her. As her despair continued to grow she felt as if the trees around her had become dark and oppressive. The birds had fallen silent as if they were spies. There was nowhere to run but back into the palace and she could not let on that she was so heavily distressed.  
She spent the next few hours composing herself and quietly planning a way of escape. Within her conspiring she had resolved to attend dinner and play it out as smoothly as she could. Then, in the darkest moments of the night, she would make her attempt at freedom. She had not much hope, but she could not stand the thought of being at the beck and call of a Monster that had fooled a world to believe him a King.

* * *

A/N: Hey, I just wanted to say a little thank you to everyone that has left a review or shown interest in my story. I really appreciate the lovely comments and the constructive criticism. I know I have a lot of developing to do, but I hope you enjoy the story. Thanks -Luna x


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